Blog
Posted on 12/31/2022 8:51:17 PM
By Donald Fox
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Here it is the last day of the last month of the year, and I think of many endings that have occurred over the past twelve months. I also recognize that an ending is just the beginning of a beginning, a transition of sorts into something new as well as a continuation of the same. Partly this is the result of memory, of reflection, and of trust in something better on the horizon. Memory is how we know who we are from the accumulation of sights, sounds, and other perceptions, the events of varying length that we call experiences. The context of all these sensations are the thoughts that give them meaning or hold them within a frame of questions. We build knowledge from what we experience, learn, accept or reject, acknowledge or deny, and somehow, we say that we know who we are. Some may rely on others to tell them who they are, some awaken to an epiphany, and some work it out for themselves. The reality is that there are many choices, and since experience is different, or more to the point, interpretation of experience is different for everyone, there are as many choices as there are perceivers for what may define any one human being as distinctly different from others.
Do we actually have free will? Is everything preordained or predetermined? If so, how, what, or who is the determiner? As an artist – someone with artistic bent – am I seeking to explain experience, to understand what I perceive, to answer questions about the world, to answer questions about my own experiences, to find universal truths in my experience, to speculate on the experiences of others, or am I avoiding the real in favor of the imaginary? Though I may see myself as a unique individual, am I really all that different from anyone else? I experience pleasure and pain, I think, breathe, and perform necessary bodily functions, which at some point will include leaving this body and this planet for the unknown – just like everyone else. My time here may be remembered or not. My passing may be noticed or not. What becomes of whatever detritus I leave behind will be beyond my control. All of the art I have created may be like the music I have made, expressed but then gone. I will have been one teardrop in the ocean of time. My molecules will mingle with those who have gone before and those who are left behind. I, as others before me, will have conquered time and transformed into some persona-less dimension.
While still here, though I find myself thinking increasingly about the past, especially that part which is not recoverable, which is to say, family and friends who have made their transition. The absurdity of those unrecoverable moments are phantoms of the mind, yet, ironically, they seem real and palpable even though they exist only as increasingly faint memories, faded photographs, the odd drawing or painting, a letter or an email, oddities that generations from now an anthropologist or archaeologist might peruse in search of understanding about the period in which I or they, the departed ones, existed. Perhaps some of my paintings will make their way into a museum or two, and I will become a footnote in the treasure trove of art history. I know that some of my friends will be remembered, for there are those who have had distinguished careers. My dad’s name will live on at the Smithsonian for his contribution to aviation although the airline he helped build has already disappeared, gobbled up as it were by a larger airline that likely will vanish in the not-too-distant future.
I meditate, therefore, on those I remember, those who in some ways have contributed to my art and have been absorbed anonymously into paint or graphite mostly without their knowing. I am grateful for having known them, loved them, learned from them, and for having spent time with them. Perhaps I will create a piece composed of their names – say their names – and this will be my masterpiece.
